Machine Gun Blues
by strayphoenix
Summary: "I like a dame who follows directions and looks damn good doing it," he says with a grin, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. "Almost like you ain't scared of me." Her heart races when he dips his head and kisses her pulse point. "Maybe I'm not scared of you," she says. "Then maybe you're in the wrong line of work, doll. Ever consider a life of crime?" A Bonnie & Clyde AU.
1. Prologue

******Machine Gun Blues**

a collaboration between _edwardandbella4evah_ and _strayphoenix_

* * *

**Ariel's Note:** Heeey guys. Brand spanking new fanfiction here. But I'm afraid this isn't my baby, but Stray's. I'm just it's adoptive mother, WHO LOVES IT LIKE HER OWN. Short prologue is short, but don't fret my pretties. We have about 11 chapters already written up haha. SO NO YEAR LONG HIATUSES ANYTIME SOON. I would like to take time to thank Stray for being amazeballs and for giving ya'all this fantabulous idea. It's all her fault, pt. 2. I hope you all enjoy!

**Stray's Note**: Ariel is far too kind. I wouldn't have ever gotten up off my ass to write this fic, which I've had an outline of sitting on my computer for the last three years, if she hadn't agreed to help me write it. I wouldn't have gotten the idea if it wasn't for the wonderful art of the wonderfully talented Keytaro and TDI-Exile on deviantart, so thanks to them too! This story is going to be a hell of a ride and it's been a hell of a long time in the making, so I hope you all have as much fun reading it as we have writing it. Happy reading!

* * *

_You've read the story of Jesse James_

_Of how he lived and died;_

_ If you're still in need_

_ Of something to read,_

_Here's the story of Bonnie and Clyde._

-Bonnie Parker

* * *

The mass of bodies outside the institution is so massive, she needs the muscle from the hospital to make her way to the door. The reporters clamor around her car, the walkway to the entrance. They all want a statement, they all want to know who she is and what she's doing. She keeps her mouth shut like her husband told her to and lets the doctors and nurses escort her to the front desk.

They shut the front door on a reporter's outstretched pencil and notepad.

The woman takes off her hat, a wide brimmed thing that defended her against the Texas sun, and says to the front desk, "I'm here to pick up my sister."

"I wouldn't have guessed," the secretary behind the counter says. "Follow Noah down the hall. He'll take you to her."

The orderly named Noah appears, gestures that she follow him.

"I sure hope you have a safe way of getting yourself and your sister out of here," he says.

"Let's make sure she's ready to leave first," the woman says. Noah doesn't reply and instead leads her down the hall, past many doors and empty rooms. She welcomes the eerie silence.

Noah opens a door at the far end of the hallway, facing away from the windows.

"You have a visitor," Noah says into the room, his voice robotic. "See to it that you're on your best behavior." The door clicks behind the two women and they're alone, but the woman in the chair isn't the same girl her sister grew up with.

Bridgette sighs, looking at her sister. Her hair has been cut short, sticking up in many directions. One of the downsides to being locked up in a mental home was their lack of professional hair stylists. Her face is devoid of any color as well and, much more alarming, any emotion. Her sister's lost weight, and she notes that the first thing she'll do upon taking her back home is make her a good meal.

"Sweetie, it's time to go home now," she says slowly, as if talking to a baby rabbit instead of an adult woman. "Mama is waiting for us. She would have come herself, but.." she sighs and trails off.

Her sister doesn't answer. The clamour outside grows louder through the walls themselves.

"Dearest," she says softly, taking her sister's hand. "I know what's written in the papers can't be true. They have their own way of twisting the truth around. Tell me the truth. If you want me to believe you, I need you to tell me what happened"

Still her sister doesn't answer. She squeezes.

"Bonnie? Sweetie?"

No response.

"...Courtney?"

The patient turns to her sister, stiff from months without sunlight. She looks her sister in the eyes, her own betraying nothing, opens her mouth to say something…

Then changes her mind. She turns back to the wall, closing her lips tight.

Outside, someone smashes a bottle against the wall of the asylum.


	2. Dallas

**Dallas, Before**

Courtney Jones wakes up to the sun in her eyes. It's the same way she wakes up every morning, with the damn sun in her damn eyes.

She sits up. The bed is empty. She tosses off the covers, gets in her slippers, and shuffles to the kitchen where she can already hear Justin making himself coffee.

If the definition of a 'bad day' was an 'absolutely normal' one, then Courtney was absolutely already having one of those.

"Morning," Justin greets methodically, reading the paper like he always does when he wakes up. "Did you sleep well?"

"Fine," Courtney responds, going to make her same old breakfast: an english muffin with butter and jam and a glass of orange juice.

"I'm working late tonight, will you make dinner?"

"Yes."

She takes a muffin from the basket by the sink and puts it on a plate, buttering both halves and then spreading jam rigorously. She takes it to the table and starts eating, barely able to keep her eyes open. Justin takes his coffee to go, and steals a bite from her muffin like he does every morning.

"Gotta run, busy day at work. See you tonight," he says, placing a kiss in her hair, putting on his jacket and walking to the door. Courtney sighs, shaking her head.

"And Bonnie," he says at the door. Courtney looks up from her muffin, pausing mid chew.

"Please bring the mail in," he finishes, closing the door behind him.

Courtney's shoulders fall. She slumps over her breakfast plate, very unladylike, and dips her muffin in her orange juice even though it tastes terrible. If only so that something is out of the ordinary.

She goes to get dressed in her room and shuts the blinds, stripping naked and laying out across her sheets with her stash of magazines. She thumbs through all the clothes she wishes she could wear to work—boldly colored short beaded dresses, feathered head pieces, pearls down to her knees, all the latest trends in the big cities—before folding the magazines up again in her bottom drawer and putting a simple cotton dress on.

She brushes her hair out and slips her heels on and starts the walk to the bank.

* * *

It's a simple job, something Justin allows her to do. She sits behind a desk, bids everyone a good day when they walked in, directing them to where they needed to go, and takes phone calls for her boss. Boring, but better than sitting at home all day.

The bell tinkles as she walks in, and she avoids the skeptic looks from the tellers behind the glass as she puts her bag down and takes a seat at her secretarial desk. Courtney doesn't even have a chance to grab her notebook before the phone rings.

"Dallas Bank, Mrs. Jones speaking, how may I direct your call?" she answers.

"_Tell me_," a voice drawls, "_If I wanted to grab some dough from my account, but wanted to avoid a long line, what would be the best time?_"

Courtney purses her lips and taps her pencil for a few moment before deciding.

"At around ten o'clock, I suppose. Everybody will usually be at their jobs, and coming before the lunch rush is crucial if you want to avoid a line."

"_Thanks a bunch, doll. You're really helping me out here._"

She frowns but keeps her voice unwavering. "May I assist you with anything else—Hello?" she asks, but all she hears is the dial tone.

The rest of her morning goes downhill.

A married couple come in to see a bank representative but refuse to talk to Courtney, despite her attempts at being polite. The woman goes so far as to sneer at the ring on Courtney's finger and comment to her husband that she's appalled that this bank would allow a married woman to work instead of tending to her children.

Courtney smiles at her politely but snaps a pencil in two under the desk.

She handles mostly men the remainder of the morning-jobless men trying to get loans to support their families. A large part of those refuse to deal with her either, jealous that she has a job they feel entitled too, and the ones that will talk to her grow bitter and angry very quickly when she has to tell them that she can't direct them to a teller because they don't qualify for loans.

As ten o'clock rolls around, her latest client leaves calling her all sorts of derogatory names because she couldn't lend him the forty dollars he needed. It's early, but Courtney's already out of pencils. She walks to Katie's desk to get more and glowers as the young, single girl chats up a handsome bachelor looking to make a deposit. When Courtney returns to her own desk, another man walks in, pinstriped suit like all the others, with a dark-haired, vaguely Asian woman beside him. They part ways at the door, the slender woman walking to a teller and the man walking right over to her.

He reaches the seat before she does and she takes her own chair with a sigh. As she straightens her face for a polite conversation she knows she isn't going to have, the man says, "Rough morning, eh?"

She hadn't meant for him to notice, but it seems like trying to pretend otherwise would be insulting to both of them.

"Not really your business, sir," she says. "What do you need?"

"You're a feisty one, ain't ya?" he says with a slow grin. "Easy on the eyes, too. I like it," he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on her desk.

A flush spreads across her cheeks. She can't remember the last time Justin shot her a compliment.

"Did you come here for something?" Courtney asks, crossing her legs under her desk at the ankles. "Or were you hoping to get a shot with me?"

"I ain't an idiot, sweetcheeks. I see the ring on your finger. You belong to someone else."

"I do not belong to anybody," she says tightly. "Especially not my husband." Women, as the magazines said, in the cities or in the countryside, married or not, belonged to themselves.

The gentleman is amused.

"There's plenty of fish in the sea, darlin', and I got a feeling you hooked yourself a dead one. Tell me how such a looker like yourself managed to get hitched so young, huh?"

Her face grows hotter. Its a combination of the attention of those blue eyes and his infuriating tone of voice.

"If I can't help you _professionally_, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she says. "Or," she adds, glancing over her shoulder at the woman who came in with him, "better yet I tell your wife you're pawing at me under her nose."

He flashes her his hand, still grinning. There's no ring. "Close hon, but no cigar. Though you are sharper than most. What's your name?"

"Sir, _what_ is your business?" she snaps.

He plucks one of her new pencils out of its container and twirls it expertly across his fingers. "I'm here to make a withdrawal, _Mrs_." He says the title with a biting sarcasm. "What's your name?"

Courtney breathes deeply as she pulls out a withdrawal form from her stack of papers and says, as politely as she manages, "Jones. Mrs. Jones. Now, what is your account number so I can direct you to-"

"And your first name?"

This isn't the first asshole she's had to deal with, but he's the most persistent by a long shot. She debates whether or not to answer truthfully for a moment, then decides, _screw it_. "Courtney. Courtney Jones. But everyone calls me Bonnie."

"Why?"

Courtney eyes him. His line of questioning is getting a little too personal, but then again, he cared enough to ask. She straightens up in her seat. "My maiden name is Bons. I'm the youngest of my family and an uncle called me Little Bonnie as a joke at a family reunion. It stuck ever since."

The gentleman sticks the pencil behind his ear, his proud smirk growing softer, more...charming. If such a thing were possible. "Courtney suits you better. A proper dame's name, not a little girl's."

Courtney glances behind her at the woman he came in with who wasn't his wife. She's eyeing the two of them pointedly, impatiently. The man doesn't take notice. It's almost jealousy and Courtney hasn't invoked jealousy in anyone in so long, the sensation is vaguely thrilling.

"Thank you, sir. How about you?" Courtney asks, leaning forward on her own elbows to accent the dip of her chest. A tendril of hair slips from behind her ear and brushes across the desk. "What do you they call you?"

He grins. "That your personal curiosity, sweetcheeks, or are you filling out my form for me?"

Courtney realizes she hasn't written a word down on the form. She reaches for a pencil from the container but he offers her the one he'd been toying with. She takes it from him and as she starts writing, smiles coyly.

"Maybe a little of both."

A gun goes off. Courtney jolts, dropping her pencil and spinning around to the sound. The Asian woman has a revolver in each hand, pointing one at the clerk and one at the people in line behind her.

"Everybody on the ground! Now!"

As she gapes, the nozzle of a gun presses into Courtney's lower back. An arm wraps around her shoulders.

"The name's Duncan Clyde, babydoll," he whispers, hot and heavy in her ear. "And for what it's worth, I'm only kind of sorry about this."


	3. Trigger

Duncan nods to his partner and she rounds up the tellers into a corner. Courtney watches the display, all too aware of the gun pressing into her back.

"What do you want?" she asks.

"I told ya, I'm making a withdrawal," Duncan retorts, prodding her with the gun. "Now, nice and slow, take me to where you keep the dough, and maybe I'll think twice about killing you."

Courtney does as she's told, walking with shaky steps to the safe at the back of the bank. This is what she gets for wanting something out of the ordinary.

"I like a dame who follows directions, and looks damn good doing it," Duncan says with a cocky grin, leaning forward to whisper in her ear as she pulls a key ring from around her neck. "Maybe I can make this worth your while, huh? Give ya a few hundreds? You can get away from yer dead fish hubby, go travel, do whatever suits you best," he offers.

Courtney doesn't dare turn around. The man is clearly insane.

"If you think money solves everything, you're wrong," she says. "My husband is a lawyer and he's going to put you behind bars for this."

He chuckles, low and warm in her ear, and she feels it run the length of her spine. What was she _doing_? The man threatened to kill her; anything between them should have stopped at that moment. And yet…

"You're awfully chatty for a hostage," he says, running the nozzle of the gun from her back to her side in a slow caress. "Almost like you ain't scared of me."

She's watching her own hands shake as she pretends to search through keys. The door requires two keys to open, neither of which she has access to. But if she tells him that, she might be dead before she finishes the sentence. So she stalls.

"Maybe I'm _not _scared of you."

For a second, she thinks he didn't hear her. Then in an instant, he grabs her by her shoulders and spins her around, presses her up against the iron door with his weight. His face is inches from hers, amused.

She barely hears him over the drumming in her ears when he dips his head and kisses her pulse point. "Then maybe you're in the wrong line of work, doll. Ever consider a life of crime?"

He sucks on the spot and Courtney's eyes flutter to the back of her head as she drops her ring of keys with a clatter. She feels every which part of him pressing into every part of her and it takes every single fiber of her willpower not to moan. Her common sense is telling her to answer no, but God how she wants to say yes if it means more of this.

She bites her tongue and shakes her head. "I can't."

"Not even for a day, hm?" he asks against her throat, tugging at the neckline of her dress suggestively. "Not even for a night?"

"What's stopping you from killing me right now?" she asks, warmth pooling in her stomach.

"Be a shame to ruin such a pretty thing," he murmurs. "Besides, yer doing what I say. I like it when dames do what I say."

Duncan pulls back and looks her right in the eyes, his own glinting. "So whaddaya say?"

Courtney breathes deep. She finds her sense. "Go to hell."

Instead of the bullet she anticipates, Duncan places his mouth on hers, kissing her fiercely.

Courtney had kissed Justin less than ten total times in her life, and half of those were for show. Duncan's kisses were _not_ for show. The electricity between them overrides her initial shock and when she finally kisses him back, he pulls away, smirking.

"Yer missing out Peaches, because I have myself a mighty trigger finger," he whispers mischievously. Then, licking the shell of her ear, adds, "And I don't mean for a gun."

He lets go of Courtney and sticks two fingers inside his mouth before letting out a shrill whistle. Courtney jumps and his partner appears with both safe keys, tossing one to him. Duncan shoves Courtney out of the way as he unlocks the door and she catches herself painfully on her palms. She turns to stare at the door, not shaking anymore, not sure she can crawl away faster than he can loot the vault.

She doesn't get the chance to try. They're out within the minute. Duncan tips his hat at her with a grin, laden down with bags of cash. "Always a pleasure dealing with a pretty lady, Dollface."

"_Bonnie_," she corrects unevenly.

Before he disappears beyond the turn of the hallway, he calls, "Catch ya on the flip side, _Courtney_."


	4. Clippings

In the aftermath, the newspapers interview Courtney about her experience. At least half of the questions ask her if she still feels safe at the bank or would she rather return to being a housewife. She answers the questions semi-politely and the bank manager promises to tighten security but doesn't really do much other than hire a police officer to watch the front door.

Justin is furious.

"You spoke to him? Why? Why would you do such a _stupid _thing?"

"I don't know," she mumbles. "I was scared."

"Really? That's your excuse for why you helped him?"

"I didn't _help _him with anything, Justin," she says from the kitchen as she makes dinner. "I was terrified so I did what he asked so he wouldn't shoot me. You weren't there. You wouldn't understand."

"I should have never let you work there," he says. "You should hand in your resignation first thing tomorrow and stay home."

"It won't happen again, Honey, I promise," she insists, turning from her aggressive salting of the pasta to face Justin. "It was just a one time thing."

"This sort of thing is never a one time thing," he says, coming into the kitchen and standing by the ice box with his arms crossed. "Your job is putting you in unnecessary danger. I want you to quit. I'll phone the bank president to make it easier for you."

"Justin, it's fine. I'm fine," she pleads, coming over to him. She takes his hands in hers. "Look at me, I'm fine. Please don't make me quit work. Working makes me happy."

He frowns. "Being at home should make you happy."

"It does," she lies. "Home makes me happy, but work does too. Don't you want me to be happy?"

She pecks him on the lips, but he doesn't return the kiss. The memory of Duncan Clyde's lips forces color into her cheeks.

Justin sighs. He pulls his hands away. "We'll talk about this in the morning. Put my dinner in the ice box. I'm not hungry."

* * *

Weeks pass and Duncan Clyde continues to haunt her. Reporters continue to want to talk to her about him. Justin refuses to even say his name. Courtney's mind refuses to let her dream with anything but the press of his lips on hers, the leather soft touch of his hands all over. But Courtney continues to wake up to the sun in her eyes and the smell of Justin on the sheets and the promise of stagnant days ahead of her.

She starts doing research. Duncan Clyde is better at covering his tracks than she originally thought and he appears in the newspaper infrequently. Little snippets here, blurbs there, rumors in the editorial sometimes. She cuts out everything she finds and pastes it in a notebook, the same she had with her at the bank.

Courtney learns what she can: His preferred method of crime is grocery stores and gas stations. He's been found amongst other crime scenes though, in a couple speakeasies and most recently, the robbery of a bank in Kansas. He has two partners—an unidentified man, assumed to be one of his brothers by the investigating police, and the slender Asian woman she'd seen with him at the bank.

Courtney holds the clipping about the Kansas robbery above her head, reading it while lying down. How exciting, to move around from place to place in such a short amount of time. She'd give anything to see Kansas city. Any city.

The afternoon sun bathes the bed in a pool of light and she closes her eyes. She tosses the clipping aside, looks at her watch and curses. Justin will be home in a couple of hours. He was bringing company as well; his boss and his wife were coming over, and Justin had strictly instructed her that they were to wine and dine them if she wanted him to get a promotion. The whole thing would be merely a show though. Justin had told her he had his boss eating out of the palm of his hands after uncovering that his dear old boss was cheating on his wife, and as long as Justin held that bit of information over him, he was getting any and all promotions that his heart desired.

Still, Courtney needs to play along. So with a grumble of how she hates cooking, she puts some clothes on and sets to making the roast chicken and potatoes Justin's boss had a penchant for. She does it even though it's damn near a hundred degrees outside, and she would rather be lazing about in the sun, drinking one of those fruity drinks they were always going on about in the magazine and wondering if someone like Duncan Clyde had ever had a boss in his life.


	5. Notions

Dinner goes off without a hitch. The men love her cooking and as they smoke cigars out on the porch afterwards, the boss's wife offers to help her do dishes. Courtney insists she has it under control but the woman picks up a rag anyway.

"Your husband is so brave," Beth says. She's a short, plain looking country girl and looks at Courtney in awe, diving right into gossip. "I can't believe he still lets you work at the place where you were assaulted! Brady would _never _let me leave the house!"

Courtney scrubs hard at a grease stain. "I wasn't assaulted. And I wasn't in serious danger."

And maybe it was the naïveté Justin was always chastising her for or maybe Duncan Clyde was better than he thought he was and she more desperate that she realized because when he'd asked her to join him, she almost said yes. Going with him might have been easier than having this conversation.

"I mean," Beth continues, oblivious, "I'm frightened of going anywhere on my own these days. I usually stay at home while Brady works late."

"I could never do that," Courtney says.

Beth turns to her, gasping like Courtney had used a swear. "Not even when you have children?"

Courtney isn't sure what prompts the honesty. Maybe it's because she knows the truth of Brady's "late nights" or because everyone she talks to keeps bringing up the memory of Duncan Clyde's breath against her throat, but Courtney finds herself vigorously scrubbing a wine glass and saying, "I'm not sure I _want _children."

The girl beside her turns a shade whiter at Courtney's words. "No.. No _children_? But.. but what are you two going to _do_ all by yourselves?"

Courtney puts the glass on the drying rack to keep from cracking it. "Marriage isn't all about children, you know," she says tightly. "Justin and I are perfectly capable of living together romantically by ourselves."

"Right... Well, I didn't mean to say that you _couldn't_... I just... well, I would _never_ feel complete without a little boy or girl to remind me of my sweet Brady!"

Courtney rolls her eyes. "Not every woman needs a baby," she says. "Or a man either. In fact, believe it or not, some women up north are doing better financially on their own. Some women are even perfectly content with their own jobs, their own homes, and—" she pauses, noticing how Beth is staring at her.

Courtney pulls some hair back out of her face and fixes the clip in her updo with a _snap!_

"Nevermind." She grabs another dish from the sink. "Just a joke."

* * *

When Beth and Brady leave and Courtney lies down for the night, she feels the crackling newspaper clippings of Duncan Clyde under her mattress. Her body flushes with the memory of blue eyes with dark hair and pinstriped suits and the tenor of his siren song voice.

"Brady had a great time," Justin says, kissing her cheek and getting into bed beside her. "Thank you. That promotion is all but guaranteed."

She turns over to him, her body warm in all the right places.

"So lets celebrate," Courtney says pointedly.

Justin looks over at her. "It's a little late for champagne."

She fights the urge to frown. "No, I mean," she rubs her legs against his suggestively, "let's _celebrate."_

Justin's brow furrows. "Bonnie, I thought we agreed that we didn't want children right now. Not at this time in our lives."

Now Courtney does frown. "Who said anything about children?"

"Well you were just suggesting…"

"Yes, but why does that have to come back to children?" That made two people today who wanted to talk to her about kids. "I just want to have sex with you."

"Honey, it's late," he says, turning over. "I have a week-long business trip with Brady tomorrow that I need to rest up for. We'll discuss this when I get back."

"There's nothing to discuss!" Courtney shouts. Justin turns back to her, eyes narrowed.

"Bonnie. You're starting to sound like one of those women you hear about on the radio," he says carefully. "This isn't like you. I don't think working at that bank is a good idea anymore."

Courtney's jaw drops. "_What?_"

"You're starting to get all these notions, and it's not good for your health, dear. I'm going to call them first thing when I get back from my trip and turn in your resignation."

Courtney's grabs his arm, shaking him.

"These _notions_? It's called _sex_, Justin! Something that _modern _husbands and _modern _wives do just because it's _fun_ and they love each other. It has nothing to do with my job, I just want us to be like that. Why can't we be like them, Justin?" she asks.

"Because those couples aren't good Christian people like us," he says sternly. "Drop it."

Courtney flips over on the bed. "I can't stand you some days," she mutters.

"Oh really?" he snaps, "Because I'm acting like I've always acted. It's you who's acting intolerable. You're moody and aggressive all the time, and you have all these ideas about how couples and women should be."

Courtney scoffs. "Oh, so it's a crime now to want to be a modern woman?"

"No, but it should be. No self-respecting, God-fearing woman would want to be a...What are they called again? Robert and I were talking about those harlots a few days ago.. oh, that's right. Flappers."

"But—!"

"_Enough_, Bonnie. Go to sleep. This is the last I want to hear about this," he warns before falling silent.

Courtney grinds her teeth and turns away from him. It wasn't a crime to want to have sex with your husband. Where did he get off, calling her a wannabe whore? Flappers weren't as bad as he made them seem. They lead their own lives and made their own choices in men and clothes and careers.

The thought trickles into her mind that Duncan Clyde would never be like this with her about sex. And even though the thought is ungrounded, it lodges in her mind. She doesn't know Duncan Clyde, but she knows he wouldn't be like this. A life of crime with him, if at all, wouldn't be _like this._

Courtney sets her brow. Justin thought she was losing her mind? Thought she was a whore and a terrible wife? Fine.

She'd prove him right.


	6. Fishnets

The next morning, she waits for Justin to leave on his trip. She packs him lunch and kisses him on the cheek and apologizes for last night. He smiles at her understandingly but still tells her that he's going to telephone the bank when he gets to work and turn in her resignation. She smiles back at him and says it's probably for the best.

Then as he drives away, Courtney counts to sixty seconds in her mind. In sixty seconds, if she still wants to leave Justin, she'll do it. If she still wants to find Duncan and take a chance on him in sixty seconds with nothing telling her no, she'll do it.

In sixty seconds with her options weighed and her conscience clear, she won't go to work and she'll do it.

The thinnest hand go all the way around the watch face. Sixty seconds pass.

She walks back inside the house, puts on comfortable shoes, and walks into town.

* * *

At the front of the hairdressers, Courtney stares in the window. It's a salon she's never been to before, far from where anyone would recognize her. She watches the women inside gossip and work, while the barber shop next door boasts laughter and the smell of shaving cream. Nobody notices her.

Carefully, Courtney counts her money. It's enough for a haircut and a few trinkets if she's feeling practical. If she's feeling impractical, however, it's enough to paint the town red.

A woman passes her coming out of the hairdressers, her blonde hair freshly permed. Courtney eyes the look, but she's looking for something else.

She walks in and sits at a chair as the hairdresser asks, "What are you lookin' to get today, love?"

Courtney picks up a magazine. "That," she says, pointing to the flapper on the cover. "Make me look like that."

The hairdresser makes a face. "That's a lot of hair to cut off. Are you sure, Misus?"

Courtney takes off her hat and her tresses tumble down her back. "Yes."

"Because I think you shouldn't do anything so drastic without consultin' your husband first."

"My husband is fully aware," she says tightly, folding her hands to cover her ring.

"There's no going back from this, you know?"

"Yes, I know! Just—" Courtney snatches the scissors from the woman's side table and cuts a chunk of her own hair at the shoulder line. A foot of hair coils on the ground.

"All right! All right!" the woman says, taking the scissors back from Courtney. "You're serious, fine, I believe you. I'll do it right before you walk out of here like a mess and someone else thinks I did this to you. Hold still."

When Courtney walks out an hour later with a lighter head and a lighter heart, every single person on the street notices.

* * *

She goes to the seediest looking clothing store she finds. She buys herself a red dress, short and beaded, and fine fishnet stockings. At another store, she buys gloves and matching shoes and the man behind the counter won't stop staring at her as she saunters through the aisles.

When she smiles at him, demure and yet sly, he gives her a discount on her purchase.

* * *

At home, she turns her purse upside down and all the makeup she purchased spills into her sink. She tries everything out, all the colors, until something looks sexy enough. She props up a magazine to try and get the eyeliner right. When she does, she changes into her new clothes and parades around her room, feeling like a whole new person. She takes off her wedding ring and tosses it on her bed.

Then she goes to the kitchen, bringing with her a page of stationery from Justin's home office, and pulls over that morning's newspaper. On the stationery, she writes Justin a note explaining what she's done and where she plans to go. She seals the envelope and leaves it on the kitchen table under the fruit bowl. In the newspaper, she scans until she finds what she's looking for, then circles it in bright red lipstick.

Duncan Clyde's last known location.

Chicago.


	7. Chicago

The three day train ride to Chicago is relaxing, almost therapeutic. How odd that Justin went on business trips and boarded trains every month, and yet she had never been on a train in her life. Courtney leans back in her seat in first class and sips from her cola.

People cannot keep their eyes off of her. The train is mostly businessmen, and every few moments one peeks over his newspaper and glances at her long legs from under her short dress, clothed only by fishnets. She smiles with her reddened lips and watches them stare as she crosses her legs or shakes out her short bouncing curls.

But she has more important matters to handle.

She glances down to the newspaper she had been given by the man who got off on the last stop and scans for news of Duncan Clyde. No new heist. No new headline. With any luck, he was still in Chicago.

"_Now arriving, Chicago Terminal."_

Courtney downs the rest of her cola and grabs her suitcase. She disembarks and shivers in the gust of wind that greets her on the platform. She hadn't thought to bring a coat and possibly obscure her new outfit. She spends a few minutes walking around the station, taking in the rich city air, the magical bustling of people in all directions. There had to be some way she could get alcohol around here.

A voice booms around the station, calling out today's headlines in the paper. Courtney opens up the cigarette holder from her side and pulls out a stick and a lighter, lighting it before taking a long drag and sauntering up to the news stand.

"Where's a gal like me likely to get a whiskey 'round here?" she asks, layering on her best Southern accent.

The man is eating out of her palm the moment he gives her a once over. "Well, there's a place down fifth street, if yer looking, but," he whispers conspiratorially, "you didn't hear that from me."

"Thanks, hon," she says and saunters off, swaying her hips a little more in her heels so the beads of her dress clink against each other.

She marvels at the skyscrapers as she walks down the street. It's like the city stretches up for miles. She wants to get a taxi and take a proper tour of the city. She wants to go to a Marshall Field's department store and see if it's everything the magazines says it is.

A car almost hits her when she crosses the road, distracted, but a simple blown kiss is all it takes to calm the driver's anger. He even points her towards fifth street.

Courtney finds the speakeasy behind the grocery store without much trouble. The man guarding the peephole takes one look at her and lets her in without a word. Inside is a cloud of cigarette smoke and feathered headdresses, top hats and shined shoes with grime, swing dancers out on the floor and a jazz band playing their hearts out. Other than the suitcase she's carrying, Courtney feels like she fits right in for the first time.

She walks up to the bar, still smoking.

"What can I get ya, eh sweetheart?" the bartender asks.

"Whiskey. Neat," Courtney says, pulling the newspaper out of her case. "And some info."

The short man pours her the drink, saying, "What kinda info?"

"I'm trying to find someone. An...ex-boyfriend of mine," she says. She lays the paper flat in front of the man, tapping out some cigarette ash on the article in question. "These days he goes by Duncan Clyde."

"I love it when dames say my name."

Courtney whirls. A couple of seats to her left, grinning at her brilliantly, looking drunk as a skunk, is Duncan Clyde.

A smile slithers across her lips and a weight vanishes from her stomach. She tilts her head, taking her drink and walking over.

"Well if it isn't the man of my dreams." She shoots back the whiskey. "I've been looking for you."

"Have we met?" Duncan slurs, half-smiling, "Because it'd be a goddamn crime to forget those legs of yers. Specially if they opened for me once."

The weight in her stomach comes right back. He didn't remember her. She'd traveled all this way, left Justin, left her old life for his promise, and the son of a bitch didn't remember her.

"We've met before," Courtney says, leisurely swirling around the stir-straw in her glass. "I'm interested in the work you do."

"A fan, eh? I can live with that," he says with a grin. He tugs her onto his lap. "S'not every day a beautiful dame comes calling on me."

"Really?" she asks, skeptical as she sets the empty glass down on the bar behind her. "I pegged you to be quite the womanizer."

"I said beautiful, didn't I?" he says, his breath hot and heavy in her ear. "I get tons of dames, but none as damn damely as yourself."

"I bet you say that to all the girls," she says coyly.

"Nope," he hiccups, "Just you, babydoll." He shifts her on his lap and she feels his revolver dig into her side. At least, she thinks its his revolver.

Courtney's cheeks flush red. She giggles involuntarily.

"What's yer name, gorgeous?" he asks, kissing up her neck.

"What say you forget the name, buy me a drink, and dance with me. If you're good, we'll have a little _fun _after," she purrs.

Duncan grabs her by the hips and moves her around so that she's straddling him. He bites her collarbone, hard. "What say you forget my name too and we just skip to that last part?"

Courtney gasps as he rubs against her. Through gritted teeth, she does her best to sound seductive. "Your place better be close."

Duncan bangs a hand on the counter. "Zeke! Key to the upstairs room!"

The bartender slides the key across the counter into Duncan's palm, saying, "Need it back before the boss gets back, eh?"

Duncan doesn't hear. He holds up the key to Courtney, the other hand on her lower back. "Close enough for ya?"

Courtney grabs him by his lapels and kisses him. "No," she pants. "_Closer_."

Duncan staggers upright. His hand keeps her from falling on her rear. He kisses her sloppily, almost falling over. Then he's grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her towards a staircase.

Courtney has a final moment of clarity and scoops up her suitcase before she forgets everything except that she's finally with Duncan Clyde and she has no idea exactly who is eating out of whose hands.

* * *

The room he takes her to is nothing special, just a bed with a wrought iron headboard, a fleece blanket, and sheets that look like they haven't been washed since they were bought. She swallows thickly. He shuts the door as she sets down her suitcase then immediately he's on her again. It's a thousand times better than any kiss from Justin and Courtney kisses him back ecstatically.

Duncan pushes her against the wall, sliding her dress up her thighs, his hands cold against her legs. She shivers and blesses every penny she spent on the fishnets. He tries to lower down the straps on her dress but she tenses, glancing at the bed.

"What?" he mutters against her lips, stopping. "Don't tell me yer a virgin or sumthin'."

"I have had...plenty of experience," she lies.

"Then stop hesitating and get to it. I'm getting bored, and if I'm bored, I ain't staying," he says, placing his hands against the wall on either side of her, staring her down.

"Well," Courtney says, still glancing behind him at the mattress, "shouldn't we move to the bed then and get started?"

"Bed is boring," he says, moving his hands to her breasts and pushing her hard against the wall. "Any old fart with a penis can fuck on a bed. Figured a gal like you could use a bit more imagination."

"Yes, well I didn't come up here to see your _imagination _now did I?" she says, placing her hands over his. "You promised me something about a 'trigger finger' and I expect you to deliver."

Duncan smirks then kisses her sharply, knocking her against the wall. She pushes off his jacket and starts undoing his shirt. At least both Justin and Duncan undressed the same. Courtney has some trouble with his belt, however, and he takes a clumsy step back, fumbling to do it himself.

"Lose the dress," he instructs. "Keep the fishnets on."

Was that a thing unmarried women did? "Why?"

"Because I said so."

Courtney takes off the dress. It's only when she's standing in front of him in just her bra and fishnets because she hadn't bothered buying panties that she remembers she's no one's to boss around, not even Duncan Clyde.

"If you want me to keep the fishnets on then you have to, um, keep the fedora on."

Duncan ungracefully falls out of his pants and underwear. When he picks himself up, panting, hard, and eyeing her hungrily, she puts her hands on her hips and adds, teasingly, "Because I say so."

He smirks, picks up his fedora from where it had fallen and puts it back on. "Kinky."

She doesn't get the chance to appreciate how truly sexy Duncan Clyde looks in just a fedora and socks when he flattens her against the wall. He pulls her bra down to her stomach, not bothering to unclasp it, and kisses his way down her succulently exposed skin. Courtney moans in delight, tipping her head back as he grabs her knee and hooks it around his waist. His trigger finger dips into the space between and her breath hitches.

Courtney digs her nails hard into his shoulder blades and doesn't let him stop.


	8. Handcuffs

Courtney wakes before Duncan does. With a pleasant soreness, she props herself up on her elbows and looks down at his snoring form. She flattens a few hairs he has sticking up after his fedora fell off between positions and climbs off the bed. Pulling on her bra, she rummages through Duncan's clothes until she comes up with a gun.

With a smile, she slides back into bed, straddling Duncan. Lightly, her fingers dance down his chest. Courtney leans down to press her lips to his collarbone, then trails her tongue up his neck. He shifts a little, the corners of his mouth turning up.

"Yer a frisky one, arent'cha?" he mutters sleepily. With one arm behind his head and his eyes still closed, he runs the other hand slowly up her inner thigh. "I like a dame with initiative. Barely done with round three and yer already raring for round four."

"You could say that," she purrs. Courtney sits up and points the pistol at his face. "Now wake up so we can get started."

Ever so slowly, Duncan blinks open his eyes. The hand on her thigh pauses.

"Now," Courtney says, keeping her voice coy. "Let's talk about me joining your little rag-tag team of criminals."

Duncan looks her over for a long moment, sitting up slightly. Then, with a groan, he flops back down on the pillow.

"My momma warned me 'bout messin with beautiful, dangerous women," he says.

Courtney smirks. "You forgot intelligent."

Duncan's hand whips out from under his pillow, a revolver in hand, and Courtney flinches back.

"No I didn't."

He points the gun at the space between her breasts and, smirking back at her, says, "You look spiffy, Barley. Do something with yer hair?"

"It's _Bonnie,_ you uncultured swine," Courtney growls, gripping her pistol harder.

"But it ain't, is it," he says, smiling knowingly, "Courtney?"

His arousal presses against her ass. Courtney doesn't let it distract her from her standoff with a seasoned criminal.

"Did you _really_ only recognize me now?"

"Darling, you insult me," he says playfully. "I may not remember every gal I've offered my trigger finger to, but I sure as hell can remember a dame who _asks _for it." He trails his fingers up her inner thigh, grinning like a fox in a henhouse. "You can't say I didn't deliver."

Courtney slaps his hand away, blushing. Duncan laughs.

"Wow, darling, yer dead fish husband must've been a _really _fucking dead fish if ya followed me all the way from Texas just for a good rub. You haven't even seen _half _the things I could do for ya, baby doll."

"Only one thing I'm interested in right now," she grinds out.

Duncan eases back into his pillow, revolver still pointed at her breastbone. "So ya want to join the crew, huh? Be my gun moll? Well, sorry babe, but that train left the station. The offer only stood while we were at the bank. It's no good anymore."

Courtney pulls the hammer back on the gun. "You don't have much of a choice, _babe_. I'm coming with you, or I shoot you."

"Hm," Duncan says thoughtfully, pressing the tip of his gun against her skin and moving the fabric of her bra aside to admire her nipple.

She slaps his hand away again, growling, "Are you listening to me? I'm serious! I'm coming with you!"

"Well, if yer so ready to run with a gang of criminals," he says, "I'm sure ya came ready with a _loaded _gun, right?"

Courtney blinks, looking at the gun in her hand.

Duncan bolts upright, throwing Courtney onto her back and pinning her arms above her head single-handedly, his knee digging into her hip.

"Now," he says casually, clicking open his revolver so she can see that it has the full six bullets, then shutting it again. "How did ya find me, Mrs. Jones?"

Courtney thrashes under him, squeezing the trigger frantically. The gun clicks empty. "Let go of me!"

"You seduce and threaten an expert criminal and don't expect anything in return?" He shakes his head and tsks. "If you could find me, anyone can. How'd ya do it?"

She saves her energy and sets her jaw. "I'm not telling you anything."

"Ya ever been shot before?" The gun's cool metal press against her side, just under her ribs. "It ain't a pretty feeling, darling. How'd ya find me?"

"I got lucky," Courtney snarls.

Duncan's smile curls mischievously. "No one's that lucky, doll. Except me. Tell me how, and I'll only leave ya _slightly _less pretty than how I found ya."

"I followed your paper trail to here," she says. "You're not exactly invisible."

"Then?" he asks.

"Then I asked every suspicious character in every bar in Chicago if they'd seen you until I found you," she lies.

Duncan starts drawing little circles on her skin with the tip of the gun. "And where does yer husband think you are?"

"He doesn't get back from a business trip for a few days. I left him a note telling him I was leaving him for you and if he wanted to—" Duncan starts shaking his head. "What?" she demands.

"Telling yer soon-to-be-ex husband the name and location of the man yer leaving him for?" He sighs. "Y'know for a married gal working at a bank, I pegged ya to be a mite smarter."

Duncan tucks his gun into the elastic of her fishnets, grabs her by the waist, and pulls her off the bed. Courtney kicks and screams but Duncan quickly clamps a hand over her mouth and pins her arms to her sides.

"We're going to be quiet now, ain't we, peaches?" he says in her ear. "I'd sure hate for any of them drunk, horny, slobbering hooligans downstairs to come rushing up and find ya in this tantalizing outfit."

She breathes hard and glares at him as he briefly releases her mouth and leans over to his discarded pile of clothes to pull out a pair of handcuffs from his jacket pocket.

"I was saving these for later, but they'll be mighty helpful now," he comments as he throws her back on the bed, catching her as she scrambles away. He holds her down long enough to handcuff her through the rails above her head. "I will say I'm impressed though. The coppers have been tryin to track me down for years, and you swing it in a couple of months 'cause yer _horny_."

"Go to fucking Hell," Courtney spits. She yanks at the headboard. She needed to get her hands out of the cuffs and around Duncan Clyde's throat.

He slaps her ass. "Been there, done that," he says and picks up his fedora from where it was resting on the pillow beside her. He slips on his clothes, snatches her suitcase from the floor, and heads for the door.

"Wait! Wait, wait, wait!" Courtney shouts after him. "You can't leave me like this! Please! I wasn't...I wasn't really going to kill you!"

"Oh I know," Duncan says, pausing by the doorframe to grin at her. "You don't have that killing look to ya."

"Please!" she begs, straining against the cuffs. "Please, what am I supposed to do? I left everything for this! I...all my money's in that suitcase."

"I know," Duncan says again, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting up.

Courtney finally says, "Please don't do this to me. I can't go back home. I won't."

"You can and ya will," he says after a drag. "This ain't the life ya want, doll. Trust me. It's good for a weekend vacation or a story to tell yer friends but you wouldn't last—"

"I will!" she shouts. "I can! Help me! Help me _learn_ and I can help _you_! I can do this!"

Duncan looks her over, chained to the bed in barely her unmentionables. He crushes the cigarette under his heel and walks over to her. Then, smirking, takes his gun from her waistband.

"Go home, love. You'll thank me for this later."

He turns and walks out the door.

"Duncan!" she screams after him. "Duncan Clyde!"

"Catch ya on the flip side, Courtney."


	9. Rain

For a long hour, Courtney kicks and yanks at the cuffs and headboard. She gets up on her knees and pulls against the iron. Neither gives. Forgetting modesty, she shouts for help but the music from the live band downstairs is too loud. Courtney collapses back on the mattress, her wrists raw and stinging like her eyes.

There's a polite knock on the door. Courtney scrambles to cover herself as a barmaid comes in to the room.

"Are you Mrs. Jones?" she asks, eying Courtney.

"Yes," Courtney admits.

The barmaid walks over with a small silver key and uncuffs her. "Mr. Clyde sent me to get you after sixty minutes. Zeke the bartender has something for you when you go downstairs."

Courtney nods, rubbing her wrists. She keeps her head down, but out of the corner of her eye she catches the barmaid giving her a derogatory glare before she tosses the key on the bed and leaves. Even after the woman has left and she's alone in the room, getting dressed, Courtney keeps her eyes down. Her clothes burn of embarrassment as she puts them on. The beads itch.

She goes down to the bar and Zeke tells her Duncan bought her a whiskey and left her something. He slides her an envelope as she half-heartedly shoots back the drink. In the envelope, she counts the couple bills he left her and the train ticket, stamped with a date that night to Texas. Enough money for a few meals, not enough to follow him again.

She walks out into the street, shivering in the wind, and a man on the corner eyes her hungrily, asks her if she has anywhere to stay tonight. Courtney covers herself with her arms and has to run when the man starts trying to follow her. She disappears into a clothing store and asks if they have a jacket. The done-up women behind the counter, in pencil skirts and up-dos, take one look at her and tell her they don't have anything there for _her _kind of woman. It takes her three attempts to find a store that will sell her a jacket and even then it's overpriced.

"Tough economic times," says the cashier, smirking at her. "We all gotta work hard to pay the bills, don't we?"

Courtney slaps all of her money on the counter, snatches up the jacket, and walks back to the train station, shaking violently. On the train platform, the man behind the news stand recognizes her.

"Find what you were lookin for, doll?" he asks.

She buries her face in her chest and squeezes her eyes shut. "None of your business."

The three-day train ride back home is nerve-wrecking. She hyperventilates at every minor stop. She has to get back before Justin does, lest he find her letter. Stupid. She was stupid. Stupid enough to believe that Duncan would let her join him when his character suggested he'd do exactly what he did: fool around with her and leave her for the next dame that came along. How could she have deluded herself so badly into thinking otherwise?

Courtney makes it to the house just before sundown on the third day as the sky starts to turn sour with rain.

"Justin?" she calls, rushing in. But the house is empty. Courtney grabs the letter under the fruit bowl, unopened, untouched, and rips it to shreds before using it as kindle for the fire despite the Texas heat. The cold from Chicago was still in her bones.

In her room, she tears the dress off, a few strings of beads snapping and scattering across the floor. She kicks them under her bed. She rips the fishnets. The gloves and heels and jewelry follow suit and she tosses it all into the back of her closet, then goes to her bed and puts the wedding band back on her finger. It feels heavy.

In the bathroom, she pulls her short hair back into a tiny ponytail and puts on a hat despite the hour. Maybe Justin won't notice until it grows back. She scrubs off her makeup, but it's stubborn and refuses to come off as easily as the clothes.

The front door clicks.

"Bonnie?"

Courtney stops, whimpers reflexively at the sound. She washes her hands of the mascara stains and rouge streaks and stares herself down in the mirror for a long second. She breathes deep. She sets her shoulders. She puts on a house dress and slowly, steadily, walks into the main parlor.

Justin's on the threshold of the door, shaking an umbrella out on the porch.

"There you are. Thanks for setting up the fire," he says, focused on the umbrella. "Driving in this rain was insane. I'm going to have to dry out my trousers."

"I'm glad you're home safe," she says.

Justin turns to her. In the light of the fire, he squints. "Are you wearing make-up?"

Courtney nods and stares at the rug.

He leaves the umbrella on the porch to dry and shuts the door behind him, coming over to Courtney. He tilts her chin up to get a better look at her face.

"What did you do to yourself? You look like a circus clown."

She turns her face from him sharply.

"I only did what you suggested," she says in a low voice.

Justin doesn't answer. He looks her over carefully, then pulls her hat off by the brim. His jaw drops.

"You cut off your hair? All of it?!"

She can't look him in the eyes. "There's some left…"

Justin whirls away from her, hat clenched in his hand, the other pressed against his forehead. "I knew it! I knew I shouldn't have left you alone for so long after what happened at the bank! You were going off on your ideas again, weren't you?!"

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

He throws the hat on the couch. "That's it. First thing tomorrow, I'm walking to the bank to turn in your resignation. You aren't going back there ever again. You aren't _working _again after this."

"This?" Courtney says to the floor. "_This _is what you wanted."

Justin turns back to her. "How could I possibly _want_ my wife to look like a sex worker?!"

Her gaze snaps to his. All at once, she's shaking again.

"I did what you expected me to do!" she shouts at him. "_This_ is what you said you wanted from me! _This _is exactly what you said I was!" And now the tears start coming. "Because according to you, the only thing I care about is sleeping around and dressing like a whore! Because you think wanting to do something with my life means I'm a terrible mother to a kid I don't even have yet! I said _fuck it! _If my own husband thinks he married a tramp, then everyone else might as well think it too!"

Courtney collapses on the armchair, unable to hold it in anymore. She was an adulterer. She was a naïve idiot. To think someone like Duncan Clyde actually cared enough about her to give her a chance. Now she's right where she started, with shorter hair and a ripped up dress in her closet.

She doesn't hear him, but she feels when Justin sits down beside her and tenderly pulls her into his embrace.

"Oh Bonnie," he says softly, petting her hair as she cries. "Oh dearest, if this is all about the fight we had, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry if what I said was so hurtful, you felt you had to go mutilate yourself like this. I'm so sorry, honey, come here, now."

Courtney struggles uncomfortably in his grip, but Justin only holds her tighter.

He kisses her hair. "I am so truly sorry, Bonnie. I... Here. I think I know what to do to make it up to you."

She pushes away, but his insistence overpowers her. He pulls her to the bedroom and whispers to her lovingly as he strips out of his suit and pulls off her cotton dress and underwear. When he kisses her comfortingly, she can't pretend it's Duncan anymore but she doesn't want it to be Justin either. Even then, she could never love Justin with the same burning intensity with which she delusionally loved Duncan Clyde these last few months.

Courtney squeezes her eyes closed as he lays her on the bed, still crying jerkily. She says nothing as he touches her where he wants, his hands smooth from a lifetime of leather gloves and folding envelopes. With shaky resolve, she turns from his kisses and refuses to fake anything, and eventually, before Justin's even finished, exhaustion wins out and she sleeps fitfully through the rest of it.


End file.
